


Pretty Dead Thing

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor copes with undead!Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty Dead Thing

He’d closed her eyes to avoid the flat stare of the dead, but there was nothing to be done about her skin. The coldness of winter and the coldness of death had already turned her fair skin blue. Though alive she’d been the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, he felt a wave of revulsion when he looked at her now. 

Sandor waited with the corpse as he’d been ordered to do, his uneasiness growing with each passing moment. He’d seen and handled the dead as long as he’d been killing, and that was most of his life. At the Quiet Isle he had dug graves for hundreds of strangers and thrown dirt atop their corpses. However it was different when it was someone you knew, someone you cared for. 

Perhaps it was guilt that made him want to set the body aflame so he wouldn’t have to look at it anymore. She was dead because he was weak. He’d gotten unhorsed during the fight and he was no longer able to move well afoot. He hadn’t been able to reach her before one of Tarly’s men plunged his sword into her heart. He’d failed to protect her, the way he’d failed to save her from Joffrey and the Imp. 

When the she-wolf returned, her mother was with her. Their men formed a ring around them as Lady Stoneheart knelt beside her eldest daughter and kissed her cold lips. The red god’s sorcery passed from mother to daughter, and Catelyn Stark collapsed as Sansa Stark rose. She cried out, terror plain in her voice and on her face. 

Her sister was nearer, but it was to him that she ran. Sandor flinched and stumbled backward, but he couldn’t stop her from flinging her arms around him. _Don’t touch me._ He was grateful for the thick layers of wool and steel that shielded him from her cold body. He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud until Arya Stark kicked his bad leg. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “She’s alive.” She gave her sister a half-hug, pressing her closer to Sandor. “It’s okay, Sansa. You’re safe now.”

It felt like he was trapped there an eternity before Sansa recovered herself. She appeared not to notice that his arms had remained at his sides. She wiped her tears away and clutched at her torn gown as though her breasts would concern anyone with that hideous bloody wound between them. “Mother?”

“She’s dead,” Arya told her. 

Thoros of Myr came forward. He was a decrepit old man who bore little resemblance to the man Sandor had fought in tourneys only a few short years ago. “Your lady mother said many times she would gladly sacrifice her life for one of her children’s. She is at peace now.”

Sandor huddled alone by the campfire while the others gathered a short distance away to pray at Catelyn Stark’s funeral pyre. Thoros led them in prayers to his Lord of Light, and there was a brief argument before a few voices were heard singing devotion to the Seven. He recognized Sansa’s voice above the others, as sweet as it had been the night he’d forced her to sing for him. He wanted to pretend she had never died, but the image of her lifeless body would not leave him. He feigned sleep to avoid talk when the others returned, and pretense gave way to real sleep. 

It was still night when he awoke. The fire was dying and the others were all asleep, except Sansa. She stood a little distance away from them, staring off into the night. 

“You make a poor sentry,” he remarked. 

She wore a new gown that concealed the death wound in her chest, but no cloak. He would have offered her his cloak, but she did not appear to be cold. _What do the dead need with warmth?_ When she turned to face him, she looked like the girl he knew, not like the dead thing he’d spent all morning watching. She smiled at him, and he almost touched her cheek. But he didn’t; if her flesh was cold, he didn’t want to know. 

She reached for him and he allowed her to embrace him. “I’m scared,” she whispered. 

Sandor folded his arms around her carefully. “You’re always scared. What more have you got to be afraid of?”

“What am I now?”

Beric Dondarrion had not revived after he’d killed him until Thoros had kissed him once more. Lady Stoneheart was not here to kiss Sansa again if he drew his sword and slew her. If he killed her, she would stay dead. He could feel her heart beating. It was faint and irregular, but it was there. And she was looking up at him, so pretty. “You’re my little bird and the she-wolf’s sister and whatever else you care to be.” 

Her face was tilted up and her lips parted, as if she meant to kiss him. Thankfully he was too tall for her, and he pretended not to notice what she wanted. It was all he could do to hold her; anything else depended on whether her flesh was warm - Arya could tell him tomorrow; he feared how he would react if he touched her and found her cold - and whether he could make himself forget that she was dead.


End file.
